Sad obsession

For some reason, I am fascinated by New Yorkers. And, I don't mean just humans who happen to live in New York City . . . I mean the monied, society set.

There, I've said it.

I wonder if it can be traced back to reading Edith Wharton as a young monkey. The fantasy world of social registers and hierarchies nearly as rigid as royal families captures my imagination.

I find their notions of value and money interesting. This business of fretting over essays for their toddler's pre-school applications and the revolving door of nannies is strange and captivating to me. The social parties . . . the judging folks by which home in the hamptons they rent each summer . . . or if they own a home in the hamptons. The money they spend on social pursuits. I just eat that stuff up.

I can't begin to imagine that I'd ever even want to function in that world . . . I have a hard enough time with small town society. (Despite being "delightful, damn it" I'm not the most social of monkeys.) I suspect that I'm taken in by the fact it does seem so surreal to me. Or, maybe it's because I'm in awe of the fact, as the Chick and I learned this winter, the wind doesn't blow on Park Avenue.

Whatever the source, I am fascinated . . . and a bit ashamed.